Meant to Feel
by flirtykurty
Summary: Blaine's severe social anxiety and fear of men seems to take over every aspect of his life. But somehow he can't help but want to change himself after meeting his therapist's new receptionist, Kurtney. NOT genderbent Klaine.
1. Introduction

Disclaimer: It's not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>There are 102 men for every 100 women on the planet.<p>

Blaine is only too aware of this.

On the train to the doctor's office, there were precisely 46 men. There were 28 women. The men almost doubled the amount of women on the train.

Each bench on that particular train car was occupied by at least one man.

So he stood, clutching the steel bar, counting each breath like Nora told him to. He watched his reflection in the pole, taking in his pale complexion and frenzied eyes.

_Seven, eight, nine, ten_...

He hated the severeness of his tensing when the Man in the Red Sweatshirt sidled past him. He clenched his teeth together, closing his eyes, and kept his counting going.

When the train finally arrived at his stop, he had to steel himself from leaping off. He watched the train depart after allowing more men onto it.

He was alone on the platform, and he could breathe easily.

* * *

><p>Nora's office was calming, most of the time. The walls were a glossy white, and the window on the easternmost side was large and always open. Miss Jessica was Nora's receptionist, most of the time. She had a head full of grey hair and a kind smile. Sometimes Janet, with her simpering voice, sat in Jessica's chair. But only at night, and only on Wednesdays and Thursdays.<p>

Blaine sat on the black patent leather couch, futzing around with his corduroy-covered knees. He spent a lot of his time looking downwards. He always noticed the slightest difference in the ground at Nora's office, too. It was vacuumed earlier. The tracks were still visible in the carpet.

There was a sudden gust of air into the office, ruffling Blaine's hair. He glanced towards the open door.

Blaine was the only one in the office at 3pm, most of the time.

A tall woman walked through the glass doors, her dark plaid skirt swaying around her. She wasn't a classically beautiful woman by any means. Her jaw was square. Her hair was cropped short, barely brushing her ears, making her face seem even more pixie-like. But there was something about her that made Blaine follow her with his eyes.

She bent over the receptionist's desk, asking a question briefly. Her eyes flicked to Blaine's, and Blaine looked down hurriedly.

"Thanks so much, dear," Miss Jessica said tiredly, rising from her chair, its wheels squeaking a bit. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then."

"Thank _you_," the woman replied. Blaine glanced upwards to see the woman taking Miss Jessica's seat behind the desk. Alarmed, his eyes darted towards Miss Jessica, who was gathering her purse.

Miss Jessica was leaving?

The door created only a minute amount of air this time as Miss Jessica hurried from the door. The new woman reached down into her purse and pulled out a magazine with a heavily-contrasted picture of a skinny model in the front.

Blaine couldn't help but stare a bit at the woman, fascinated by the way her eyes roamed over the magazine's pages, the way the corners of her mouth turned up when she read something she liked.

Suddenly, their eyes met once more.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice saccharine, but Blaine could see that her eyes held a bit of a challenge. Blaine swallowed heavily.

"I'm sorry, Miss," Blaine apologized, and if anything the woman's eyes grew sharper. She opened her mouth but snapped it shut, seemingly having noticed something about Blaine's appearance. She scrutinized him shortly. Blaine could have sworn her eyes widened a bit in recognition. Blaine cleared his throat, both hands shaking terribly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I... I wasn't staring."

"It's not a problem," she said shortly. She picked up her magazine and hid her face from him.

Another silent minute passed between them (Blaine counted each lonely second).

"Who are you?" he asked quietly, but the woman heard him clearly. She glanced at him for a moment before responding.

"I'm the new receptionist. Ms. Baley-Clarke is retiring at the end of the month, and Dr. Krugman asked if I could stagger my hours so her pa- so she could get used to me," she replied, coloring over her stutter. Blaine caught the slip. However, he wasn't offended; if anything, he was flattered. It meant that Nora knew how much routine mattered to him.

"...And your name?"

"It's Ku..." The woman coughed suddenly at that moment, glancing up at Blaine embarrassedly. "It's Kurt...ney."

"I-It's nice to meet you, Kurtney," Blaine said, attempting pleasantry.

"Pleasure's all mine," Kurtney responded, and at that moment, Nora opened the door and strolled in.

"Blaine, you're here early once more," the brunette woman said with a kind smile. "Let's get this party rolling, shall we?"

Blaine nodded and stood from the couch. He glanced back at Kurtney, who was once again immersed in her magazine.

He smiled briefly and followed Nora into their talking space.

"Your day was all right so far?" Nora asked, her tone far more pleasant than Blaine could hope to achieve. Blaine nodded briefly, accepting the tea that she offered him. "Anything in particular?"

"I met Kurtney."

"Kurtney?" Nora looked confused, and Blaine mirrored her look. She tilted her head at him. "Who's Kurtney, Blaine?"

"Your receptionist," Blaine responded, gesturing towards the door. Nora's eyes slid to the door and back to Blaine, her eyes alight with something he couldn't identify.

"Oh, yes, Kurtney. The new receptionist. I'm used to her last name, I've been seeing it before her first for such a while now," Nora explained.

Blaine glanced towards the door suspiciously and back at Nora, whose face he couldn't help but trust. He nodded once more, and their session began.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>Every time that Blaine came into Nora's office, Kurtney had a new magazine. After the eighth time that he had come in (his appointments were twice a week), he had narrowed down which magazines she seemed to prefer. She loved<em> Vogue<em>. Many of the covers he couldn't read, as they were in French, but his limited understanding let him surmise they were all fashion magazines. She usually had a stack of magazines by the phone.

She was a great receptionist, too. She confirmed every session with a polite text message _and_ an email. When he wouldn't respond within two hours, she would call. He didn't know how she managed it if her nose was always buried within the glossy pages of her magazines.

Today he was watching her once more. She used to fidget beneath his gaze, her eyes darting towards him every time that she felt his eyes on her. But she seemed to be conditioned to it now, and she didn't glance his way when he came in other than to sign him in.

He was more comfortable this way, and she must have known it. It was lovely to be able to sit within breathing distance of another person and not feel that tug at the back of his neck - that little instinctual feeling to dash away and hide somewhere where he could curl up and lock himself away from the world.

She never did that finger-licking thing to turn a page that his mother would do. She would always separate the pages delicately. She could whip through a magazine, but when she stopped on an article she liked, it was obvious. Sometimes she would hum in agreement to a printed statement. She'd smile briefly. Her long, dark lashes skewed his view of her eyes when she looked downwards.

Blaine wanted so desperately to talk to her.

His brief words with her, those four weeks ago, weren't enough. He was drawn to her, and he couldn't explain why. He wasn't necessarily sexually attracted to her - such a notion sent shivers up his spine. It swelled his tongue until the thought of speech was far from him.

Each day she came in, she seemed to be a little more feminine, too. He noticed that. But that plaid skirt of hers was a staple of her wardrobe. He was surprised - such a woman obsessed with fashion magazines should have at least a bit of variety within her clothing, right?

She was wearing black skinny jeans today. He only saw them over the desktop when he checked himself in, because the desk hid her legs from his view when he sat down. Her knee-length sweater was bright red, and there was a pin of a tiny yellow bird above her breast.

He was watching her on this meeting too. She was reading _Vogue Italia._ Did that mean she could read Italian? _Speak_ Italian?

Nora was always saying that to start conversations. He'd started the conversation before, hadn't he? He'd asked who she was. He'd nearly overwhelmed himself with anxiety after overanalyzing each word of their conversation that night at his apartment.

So here was his chance.

"_Parli italiano_?" he burst out. He clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes widening. She looked up at him, eyebrow quirked upwards. She smiled swiftly at him, all lip and no teeth.

"_Mi parla un po, a causa del mio francese_," she replied, her accent a little stunted. Her voice wasn't high like most women; it was rich, but not quite deep. Blaine nodded, glancing towards the open window.

"I learned Italian in high school," Blaine explained. "My family's Italian."

"I learned Italian in Italy," responded Kurtney. Blaine's head whipped back towards her, and her smile was growing slightly.

"You've been to Italy?" he asked quietly.

"I've lived there. I was an intern in Milan at Miu Miu for around a year."

Blaine sat back on the couch, raking a hand through his curls nervously. So she had _travelled_ as well. He'd always wanted to travel. He tacked her traveling onto his mental list of her traits. "You love fashion," Blaine stated, and Kurtney nodded.

"Very much so."

Nora came into the lobby of the office at that moment to collect Blaine. She glanced between Kurtney and Blaine. "What's the conversation?" she asked, her voice soft as always.

"Italy," Blaine said, his response short as he remained gazing at Kurtney, whose cheeks seemed to blush with his continued staring.

"A lovely country. Shall I wait in my office for your conversation -"

"It's fine," Kurtney interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "I have no wish to keep Blaine from his time with you, though it's been wonderful to speak Italian after so long." The smile she offered Blaine in that moment made a funny flutter fly up his esophagus.

"All right then. Blaine?"

Blaine followed Nora wordlessly to begin their session once more.

* * *

><p>"So, let's discuss Kurtney."<p>

Blaine's eyes shot up to meet Nora's, but she was gazing downwards at her clipboard. She put a thoughtful hand to her cheek. "Before today you haven't made any attempt at speaking to her. What changed?"

"I haven't... spoken Italian since I was in school," Blaine began, feeling that familiar self-consciousness creep up his spine. Nora nodded, her eyes locked on him but her hand scribbling furiously. He fidgeted nervously, something he _never_ did around Nora anymore. "She was reading _Vogue Italia_."

"Thousands of people read _Vogue Italia_," Nora pointed out. Blaine nodded, looking towards his knees again. "No, try to look at me when you talk, please." Cringing, Blaine looked back at Nora. That was his most common mistake. "What makes Kurtney different, Blaine?" Nora asked gently.

"I don't know," he mumbled, keeping their eyes connected. His hands were clenched tightly over his knees.

"I think you do." The eye contact was unnerving now, because her look was so _knowing._

After a moment had passed, Blaine tried to collect himself. "I... find her intriguing," he answered slowly. "It isn't... I don't..."

"You aren't _interested_ in her," Nora completed for him, smiling gently. He nodded thankfully.

"I am _interested _in her, but... only in that she's the first person I've ever _wanted_ to talk to," Blaine admitted, his gaze drifting from Nora's face. He glanced back at her, minutely panicking. "Not that I don't want to talk to _you,_ necessarily, I-I..."

"I understand, Blaine," Nora said soothingly. "Can you identify _why_ you want to talk to her?"

Blaine shook his head, his eyes closing in an attempt to regain a safe pace of heartbeat. "I just... it isn't that she's particularly _stunning_... she is beautiful, but... I-I don't think that's the reason why I'm drawn to her." He glanced at his hands, watched the tendons flex as he squeezed his knees. He pressed his lips together harshly. "Her eyes are..." He trailed off, unable to describe how he felt when Kurtney simply _looked_ at him.

"I think this is progress, Blaine," Nora said softly. "Do you feel that you can _continue_ speaking with Kurtney?"

Blaine raised his head to nod at Nora, his tongue strangled by his revelation. He wanted to _talk_ with Kurtney. It wasn't so much that he wanted _her_ to speak to _him_, though he wanted that almost as much.

"Our session's over, Blaine. I'll see you again on Tuesday, then?"

"Tuesday's great," Blaine said, his voice sounding a thousand miles away.

When he exited Nora's therapy room, he looked towards Kurtney again. She was at the end of her _Vogue Italia_.

"G-goodbye," he stuttered, cursing every god that could possibly exist for embarrassing him in that moment. She raised her head to look at him. She smiled widely and Blaine felt his heart stop. She spoke.

"See you Tuesday, Blaine."

* * *

><p>The interior decorating in Blaine's apartment was bohemian at best and a pigsty at worst. He had hung paper lanterns throughout the apartment, placing them over each bulb he found. Stacks of books were laid about the floor, orphaned from shelves. The walls were papered with lyrics, each hastily scrawled and pinned with thumbtacks.<p>

Blaine plugged in his electric kettle, settling himself in the lone black dining chair. Most of the apartment was dark, and the walls were tinged red from the light of the lanterns. A mobile of photographs from his youth dangled over his paper-cluttered desk in the corner of the room, a shaft of moonlight making the paperclips glint. He followed the turning of the mobile with his eyes for a moment before shaking his head. None of those photographs were relevant now.

He glanced about the room, wondering what Kurtney would say about such living conditions. He supposed that most people with severe social anxiety would live in a clean apartment, with stark white walls to make one think about nothing.

But he _craved_ social interaction. The problem with this was his complete _terror_ of it. Every tiny little interaction he ever had was something that reviewed constantly, both in the moment and later. His over-analyzation made him unable to speak two words to most people. It was a miracle that Nora got him to talk.

This terrible contradiction was a conundrum that plagued every inch of his life.

That wasn't even counting his paralyzing fear of - of his own Goddamn _gender_.

He buried his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Kurtney wouldn't want to talk to him if she knew the depth of his psychological problems. She would act like everyone else did once they found out the truth: constantly walk on eggshells. He couldn't ever talk to her. She'd think that she was making him uncomfortable...

He pushed himself upwards from the chair, rushing to the counter where his kettle sat. Nora told him that he couldn't keep thinking like that. It wasn't healthy, nor realistic.

He poured his mug of chamomile and stirred it gently. He smelled it reverently, closing his eyes and feeling his nerves settle minutely. For a moment, he simply watched the steam from his tea rise in swirls and dissipate.

He walked over to the window, watching the train below rush by. The glass rattled a bit, and Blaine put his fingers to it. Whiteness burst from the heat of his fingertips, clouding the glass. He stood for a minute before pressing his forehead to the glass as well. Its frigidness braced him.

He stood with his forehead touching the cold glass of the window, the only light coming from the train's headlights and Blaine's red lanterns.

Tuesday would be the day when he could finally speak to her without stumbling. Without rethinking every word he spoke, or thought of speaking.

That was the first night that he dreamt about Kurtney Hummel. He dreamt of encouraging smiles, a quick wit and eyes that stopped his breath, and a place where he could speak as freely as he wanted with this fashionable, multi-lingual girl.


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you all for your feedback on this story! I'll try to have a posting schedule of every Monday and Friday. After this, the next chapter will be posted around October 3rd or 4th.

Disclaimer: It's not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>"He thinks I'm a woman."<p>

Mercedes' brows shot to her hairline as she blew the steam from her coffee. "You're not serious?" she asked incredulously, and Kurt nodded solemnly.

"Dr. Krugman told me that a few of her patients have severe androphobia, so... I guess I pretended to be a woman on the spot," Kurt responded, shrugging a shoulder. Mercedes sat back in her chair, laughing in disbelief. "I _was_ wearing that McQueen kilt after all."

"And you're always the one who defends your masculinity?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to make her patients uncomfortable. It's a good job. My benefits are way better than when I was interning."

"Honey, you barely had _any_ benefits."

"Exactly!" Kurt dismissed, drinking down his non-fat mocha. Mercedes rolled her eyes. "Here's the kicker: my name is _Kurtney_."

Mercedes burst out with legitimate laughter this time. Kurt felt inexplicably guilty when he chuckled along with her.

"Is that even a _name_?" she asked between her bouts of giggles.

"It was the first thing I had on the spot," Kurt defended, though his smile gave him away. "I had to cover up saying 'Kurt' with a cough attack."

"You're bad," Mercedes said, shaking her head. Kurt rolled his eyes.

"It's convenient. I don't want a patient stuttering out their name when they're checking in."

"Speaking of patients," Mercedes said conspiratorially. "You say one of them's cute?"

"No, one of them's _gorgeous_," Kurt corrected, grinning. "I don't know if I can say his name, though. Is that breaking doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"Probably," sighed Mercedes, and Kurt sighed with her.

"Shame, he has a good name too. Very 80's-movie-esque," he hinted, and Mercedes giggled. "I let you take what you can from that. Anyways... I think he has a crush on Kurtney."

Mercedes wasn't giggling anymore. She looked at Kurt seriously. "Kurt..."

"I'm not going to jump his bones or anything, Mercedes, Jesus!" Kurt exclaimed. "I'm just saying! He stares at me _every time_ that he's waiting for Dr. Krugman, I swear."

"Kurt, what if he's... _unstable_?" Mercedes asked worriedly. "And he ends up stalking you, and slashing you up and you end up a lampshade? Baby, I do _not_ want my best friend becoming furniture."

"Half a moment ago you were asking about which of her patients were cute," Kurt pointed out, and Mercedes waved a hand in the air.

"But I didn't think any of 'em were interested in you! Let alone a _girl_-you, Kurt, this is not smart. You don't talk to him, do you?"

"He speaks Italian, Mercedes, what could I do?" Kurt asked helplessly, and Mercedes groaned while leaning back in her chair once more.

"There were _thousands_ of men in Italy who spoke Italian. You weren't throwing yourself at any of _them_."

"And I'm not _throwing myself_ at anyone now," Kurt snipped, sipping at his drink with his eyes narrowed at his best friend. "We made conversation about Italy. That's literally _all_ that happened. I just think that he's cute. Besides, all I said is that he had a crush on _Kurtney_."

"I can't imagine he'll be that happy when he finds out you're a _guy_, Kurt," Mercedes said lowly, as though Blaine were in that coffee shop at that moment. Kurt huffed noisily, leaning forward so that only Mercedes could hear him.

"Who says that he'll _ever_ find out?"

* * *

><p>Kurt glanced in his car mirror, scrutinizing his reflection. The lip gloss was a bit much, but Blaine <em>was<em> coming in today, right?

And he was a woman on Tuesday and Fridays. Right.

He checked his outfit over one more time, just to check for its gender-ambiguity. His favorite dark wash skinnies with a long grey peacoat. Boring by his standards, but what really made the outfit was the _spectacular _peacock feather pin he had on his lapel. Beneath the peacoat was a collared shirt, but he had a scarf to cover up the masculinity of it. It wasn't a problem for him to femme up his outfits a bit - to him, fashion was genderless. He'd worn corsets in high school.

As he walked into the office, he noticed that Dr. Krugman was sitting in his seat. He tilted his head at her as he set down his bag behind the desk.

"Hello, Dr. Krugman," he said slowly, and she smiled at him genially.

"Hello, Kurt," she replied. "There's a matter I must speak with you about. Could you step into my office?"

"Sure," Kurt said, feeling a sense of dread already settling in his stomach. He shouldn't have told Blaine his name was _Kurtney_. He should have corrected him straight off the bat.

He was going to lose his job now.

"I can already see you overanalyzing this, Kurt, and I want you to know I'm not firing you," Nora Krugman said lightly, sitting down in her psychiatrist's chair. Kurt looked at her, eyes wide.

Oh, she was _good_.

"I'd actually like to ask an enormous favor from you," the doctor said sharply, sitting up in her chair, her impeccably posture suddenly intimidating. Kurt nodded, his throat feeling dry.

"Anything, Dr. Krugman."

"This is about one of my patients, Blaine. It would be extremely soothing for him to have someone to speak to," she began. "He's found that he would like to talk to you more often. However, it is... _crucial_ that he believes you are a woman." Kurt met the woman's eyes, and her gaze was intense. "His condition disallows him from socializing with men at the moment."

Kurt nodded once more. "I don't have a problem with that," he said softly, and Dr. Krugman smiled.

"It won't be necessary for you to pursue any conversation with him. In fact, I'd rather you not. Please wait for him to come to you."

"All right."

"We'll take things from there. Now, I have a 9-o'-clock..."

"I know," Kurt said, grinning at her. "I am your receptionist, after all." Her laughter was light and delicate.

"That you are. Shoo!"

* * *

><p>Blaine came at 2:30PM. His appointment wasn't for another half hour, and Kurt knew his early arrival was intentional.<p>

He didn't glance up when Blaine first entered, but he gave him a radiant smile as he checked in. Blaine stumbled backwards a bit on his heel, and Kurt wondered if he was being a bit too forward. Blaine scrawled his name on the paper, not looking directly at Kurt's face.

"Good afternoon, Blaine," Kurt said gently, taking the sign-in clipboard from Blaine. Blaine bit his lip and looked downwards towards his shoes. Then, almost like he had to _force _himself to, he looked back into Kurt's eyes.

"Good afternoon, Kurtney," he said quietly, and Kurt grinned once more. At this, Blaine was once more taken aback, but offered a tiny smile.

Blaine sat back down on the leather couch he was so fond of. Kurt wondered why momentarily, glancing about the room at all the other armchairs and the other couch by the door.

He realized it was because it was the seating arrangement closest to the receptionist desk. He probably liked being _near_ people, even if he couldn't exactly _speak_ with them.

Kurt decided to peruse his magazine, since Blaine hadn't said another word to him. He felt his mouth watering when he saw the pieces from the new Proenza Schouler collection, but his fashion orgasm was interrupted by Blaine clearing his throat. Kurt glanced upwards and met Blaine's eyes. Blaine immediately looked away, but only slightly.

"Wh-what's your whole name?"

Kurt smiled gently, knowing that Blaine couldn't see it. The guy was _adorable_.

"Kurtney E. Hummel," he replied, turning the page in his magazine but not looking at it. Blaine nodded shakily.

"W-" Blaine had to cough briefly. "What does the 'E' stand for?"

"Elizabeth."

"That's a beautiful name."

"Thank you."

"That was my sister's middle name, too," Blaine said quietly, his voice sounding a thousand miles away.

"No kidding?"

"I'm not."

"Well, there you go. I'll have to chalk that one up to coincidence, I think." Blaine looked at Kurt then, a grin peeking out. Kurt chuckled briefly before closing his magazine. "This isn't fair. Now I have to know all of_ your _name, too. Do you have a middle name?"

"Sure."

"What is it?"

"I-It's Westwood. My mother's maiden name."

"Blaine Westwood Anderson," Kurt drew out, and he could see a red flush creep up Blaine's neck. "Very debonair, sir."

"Thank you," Blaine said, his voice small once more. "Your name really fits you."

_If only you knew_.

"I like to think so," Kurt replied, laughing a bit. It was quiet between them for another beat, and Kurt flipped the page of his magazine once more, not seeing any of the text on the page. Blaine cleared his throat again, and Kurt looked up expectantly.

"H-how old are you?"

"I'm 24," Kurt replied smoothly. Blaine's eyes widened.

"So am I."

"Then we're just two peas in a pod, aren't we?" teased Kurt, his smile kind. That red flush decided to settle itself on Blaine's cheeks, it seemed.

"I guess so."

"What do you do, Blaine?" Kurt asked before he could stop himself. Blaine looked at him, surprised.

"...I write the horoscope section of the local newspaper."

"Really?" Kurt questioned, eyebrows raised. Blaine nodded slowly.

"It's something I can do from home so... so, it's convenient."

"Are they really all fake? Or do you have some sort of mystic power that I don't know about?" asked Kurt, pressing for a bit more conversation. This brought a smile out of Blaine independently for once.

"They're all ambiguous. They're things that happen to everybody every day," Blaine explained, his voice gaining a bit of volume as his confidence increased.

"So, in a way, they're fake. But they're all real, too?"

"That's a nice way of putting it. Sure."

"My stepmother follows those things like mad," Kurt mused, putting a hand beneath his chin. "Don't worry, I won't tell her. Can't let you lose a loyal reader." This made Blaine actually _laugh_, and he had a brilliant, white smile even if his laugh was awkward and inexperienced.

"Thanks," Blaine said, his voice sounding shaky between his chuckles. "But I don't think I'll be cheated out of my livelihood by the loss of one reader."

"You never know," Kurt replied, waggling a finger in Blaine's direction, which kept Blaine grinning.

The door to Dr. Krugman's office opened at that moment, and the lithe brunette doctor emerged. "Blaine, early once again."

"Hello Nora," Blaine said, no longer full of laughter. Kurt glanced over at him, and he saw that the smile had melted from his face. In fact, he even looked _disappointed_ that his session was beginning. Kurt pursed his lips briefly.

"Well, come on in, then."

Blaine stood stiffly and walked by Nora and into her office. Nora sent Kurt an approving smile before closing the glass door.

Kurt exhaled heavily, and glanced back at his magazine. Suddenly, he wasn't so interested in reading anymore.

* * *

><p>At 5 PM, Kurt tapped his magazines into order and dropped them into his plaid luggage bag. Nora exited from her office and stretched an arm over her head. Kurt cracked a smile.<p>

"Long day?" he asked conversationally, and she laughed briefly.

"Ye-es," she replied, stretching out the statement. "But I'd like to thank you, Kurt." Kurt raised a single eyebrow at her. "For your conversation with Blaine," she clarified. Kurt's jaw dropped and shook his head.

"No, that's not a problem, I enjoy speaking with him," responded Kurt quickly, rubbing his right arm with his left hand. Nora nodded, her eyes locked on his. Was she testing him?

"Well, that's perfect, because I'm going to have to ask you to continue it."

Kurt nodded, and Nora smiled widely at him. "Thank you once more, Kurt, and I'll see you tomorrow," she dismissed, and Kurt stood hastily.

"Thank you, Dr. Krugman."

As he walked to his car, Kurt couldn't help but feel that guilt rolling up and down his esophagus.


	4. Chapter 3

_Once again, thanks for all the feedback! I'm aiming to get the next chapter up by the 8th or the 9th._

Disclaimer: It's not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>The list of questions that Blaine had devised was getting a bit long. Said list contained nearly everything there was to know about Kurtney: What's her favorite food? Her favorite drink? For that matter, does she drink alcohol? Does she have a pet? Who's her favorite designer? Who are her friends (if she has any)?<p>

After writing that last question, Blaine set down his fountain pen. Of course she has friends. This notion caused a little tug of jealousy at his jaw, and he clenched his teeth tightly.

Does she have a boyfriend?

He didn't _exactly _want to be her boyfriend. He wanted to be around her more often, certainly. He wanted to have grand conversations that didn't have a single stutter. He wanted to be able to take her out somewhere (maybe a café, one that she likes, so he can find out her coffee order) without having to avoid all the men around them. He wanted to make her smile, and make her laugh.

Sometimes he wanted to see if her skin was just as soft as it looked.

His face was burning at that thought, and he crumpled up the paper and threw it at the wall. It failed to land in the wastebasket. How shameful, to think of her that way. Kurtney was better than that. All these thoughts in his head just made him feel awkward and embarrassed.

Maybe he _did_ want to be her boyfriend after all. He'd never wanted that before.

He maneuvered around in his black dining chair, straddling it and resting his chin on the back. He'd found people attractive. Kurtney _certainly_ was attractive, but that much was obvious to anyone. Her eyes haunted him at night with their beauty. He hadn't exactly thought about how he would _ever_ ask out a woman (the thought of a man sent him into shivers). But he had assumed long ago that relationships weren't an option for him.

He desperately wanted them to be.

Groaning, he launched himself from the chair to walk over to his desktop computer. It was not new technology - a Dell Dimension. He had this sentimentality about everything though. He couldn't bear just... backing the thing up and shipping the data off to a new, shiny computer. It was silly. The thing still worked, though.

Blaine licked his lips as he concentrated on the desktop time. It was nearly one-thirty. He swore loudly and bounded towards the door, grabbing his muffler from the coat hanger. With a quick glance at himself in the mirror (an adjusted curl here, and a smoothed out jean pant there), he was out the door.

How could he have been so foolish? The train left at 1:45, and the station was a good ten-minute walk from his apartment. Continually cursing his own forgetfulness, Blaine rushed along the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding any contact with fellow sidewalk-goers. He shimmied past a particularly rowdy group of high schoolers (all male, except for one, who might as well have been) to jump onto the train, tapping his Metro card in the process.

He inhaled heavily when he was on the train, trying to catch his breath. He pushed a curl out of the center of his forehead, where it was stuck with sweat. A chill ran up his spine. He knew the feeling.

He'd caught the eye of the man across the train car. Immediately, he felt his jaw lock up.

The stranger was simply looking at him. Not _lustfully_ or anything, just observing him. But somehow just the man's gaze on him made tremors rack up and down his body. He clenched his fists tightly, trying to ignore the sensation. Studiously, he stared out the window, trying to ignore him.

The mohawked man looked away.

People say that you can't _really _feel when somebody's eyes are on you. There wasn't any environmental change. The atoms in the air didn't shift when their eyes did. Maybe it was the socially paralyzing paranoia, but Blaine was sure that he knew when someone was looking at him.

The train ride was only fifteen minutes long, but Blaine felt like his nerves were caught in an inferno. Every little reaction was picked up and magnified a thousand times.

Look away.

Don't look at me.

_Stop staring at me!_

Blaine didn't realize he was holding his breath for such a long time until his stop was announced. He cast a final, unwilling glance at the stranger, who raised an eyebrow at him. Blaine's eyes widened and he dashed from the car.

He must have looked a complete, disheveled mess when he arrived at Nora's office, because Kurtney swiftly asked him if he was feeling all right.

Flushing at her concern, he gave her quick, brief assurance that he was fine ("I'm fine...") before sitting down on that leather couch. It squeaked embarrassingly as he sat, and he shifted uncomfortably.

There wasn't any music in the lobby on Nora's office, which Blaine was thankful for. It made his time with Kurtney seem just a bit longer.

His leg was nervously bouncing up and down, and he placed a hand on it to forcefully stop it. He gulped heavily and looked towards Kurtney, who was remarkably without magazine. She was marking something on a tablet with a silver stylus. Her hand came up to brush a lock of hair irritatedly from her face.

"How was your weekend?" he asked quietly. Kurtney's eyes glided up towards his, and she gazed at him from below her lashes.

How could he _ever_ have thought she wasn't classically beautiful?

She smiled vaguely and shook her head. "It was fine. My stepbrother Finn and his idiot friend are in town."

"From?"

"I'm from Ohio. Little town called Lima. I escaped as soon as I could, but Finn wasn't so lucky." She hummed thoughtfully. "He's already buckled down with a wife and a kid on the way."

Blaine nodded, but didn't say anything else. After a beat of silence, Kurtney sat up entirely and looked at him straight-on.

What a different feeling from the man on the bus.

"Have you always lived in California?" she asked gently. His response was fluid.

"No, I moved here when I was fourteen. Difficult circumstances at home."

"Where was home, if you don't mind me asking?" Blaine watched Kurtney carefully.

She was the only person he talked to outside of Nora. She'd already given him _so much_.

"Westerville."

"As in, Westerville, Ohio? No kidding!" laughed Kurtney, leaning back in her swivel chair. "Maybe if you'd gone to high school in Ohio, we would have been classmates. Or rivals!"

The idea of Kurtney as a peer was invigorating. But the thought of her as a rival... nauseating. He couldn't_ ever_ say something against her.

"You never meet _anyone_ out here from Ohio..." Kurtney muttered, smiling against a closed fist. "How great. Are you a Buckeyes fan?"

Blaine smiled at this, nodding his head. He looked at her questioningly and she shook her head vigorously. "No, no, I'm not too fond of football. That's my dad. I prefer scarves." Blaine did an obvious head jerk to the scarf around her neck and she laughed, the sound rich. "One of these days I really will open up Haus of Hummel, and _everyone_ will prefer scarves to football. My scarves, at least."

"I'd wear your scarves," Blaine offered meekly. If he hadn't been paying so close attention to her face, he would have missed the light blush that tinted her cheeks. She didn't reply, but she charmingly tucked her cheek into her scarf to hide her growing smile.

"You're too much," teased Kurtney, showing him her grin. He shrugged and returned her smile. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. It felt nice - it wasn't like he hadn't smiled before, but it had been such a long time since it came so naturally.

These simple pleasantries that they exchanged were quickly falling into routine.

A _routine_.

Blaine simply adored the sound of that.

* * *

><p>When his session was completed with Nora, Blaine felt a now-familiar shiver run up his neck. Per his routine, it was time to tell Kurtney that he'd see her tomorrow.<p>

But his routine fell to pieces when he exited Nora's office and looked towards Kurtney's desk.

It was the man from the train. He was leaning over the desk, palms splayed on the desktop, his smirk enormous on his devilish face. Kurtney was rolling her eyes and poking the ends of the man's fingers with her stylus pen. She rolled her neck irritatedly and stared right at the man's face, facial expression unamused.

"Honestly, I told Finn I was driving home..." Blaine caught her saying. The man ran a hand down the stripe of hair on his head, ending by tousling Kurtney's own. Blaine was scandalized. Kurtney simply looked annoyed. She swatted the hand away, but there was a telltale smile at the corner of her mouth. Blaine wasn't the only one to notice this. The man reached forward and flicked her forehead in an older-brotherly gesture.

Blaine hadn't felt this far away from Kurtney since... before the first day he met her.

Kurtney's eyes caught his, and she smiled warmly. "Heading home, Blaine?" she asked, her tone sweet. Nodding nervously, Blaine edged by them, and Kurtney's smile faltered. "Are you all right?"

He nodded once more, the movement tight. Kurtney scrunched up her eyebrows in obvious concern, and Blaine's discomfort was momentarily taken over by guilt.

But he couldn't be in the same room as that man (or any man at all).

Blaine hurriedly pushed open the glass door and left the doctor's office, moving briskly along the rapidly-darkening sidewalk. He glanced upwards.

Of course it would rain. It was simply his luck. Somebody up there must have been laughing to make everything humiliating happen to Blaine on one particular day. It didn't rain out of nowhere in Southern California.

He stalked through the mist, the precipitation becoming heavier and heavier with each footfall of his. It never became a downpour, but he was sufficiently soaked by the time he got onto the Metro.

With his hair dripping with rainwater but his ears filled with the moving sounds of the train, he calmed down slightly. That wasn't true. Today wasn't entirely humiliating. He had talked to Kurtney earlier, and it had been one of the most natural conversations they'd had to date.

But the day had ended in disaster.

He groaned quietly, pressing his head against the metal pole. He could feel the droplets from his hair running down it.

He couldn't even _look_ at that mohawked man. Kurtney was genial, even _playful_ with him. They must have been friends.

Or more.

That thought made his gut twist with a mixture of despair, jealousy and a bit of revulsion.

When he was safe in his apartment, Blaine immediately headed to the shower, turning on the water immediately and putting his head beneath the frigidity of the water. He shivered in its coldness, but kept stewing inside, thinking about his own social incompetence. Nora wouldn't be pleased. She thought that they were mostly over this stage. How wrong she was!

There was a strange beeping coming from the hall. He squinted through the shower water, and peered around the curtain. It sounded again. Quirking an eyebrow, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed to investigate.

Holding the towel securely and dripping water around his apartment, Blaine searched for the source. He found it on the hallway end table.

His cell phone was ringing.

His cell phone _never_ rang_. _Granted, it was just a notification ring, but nevertheless...

Blaine picked up the phone and flipped it open. He had no need for one of those touch phones or those smartphones with the slide-out QWERTY keyboards. He didn't text anyone. But he had a text message.

The only person who texted him was Kurtney, and that was to remind him about appointments. But it was 7 PM. Why would he get at text at seven?

With a trembling thumb he opened the message.

"_Are you OK? You didn't say your goodbye to me :( - K_"

Blaine had to sit down then, and he collapsed onto the black dining chair. He ran a hand through his unruly, wet curls, his face alight with boyish, elated excitement.

His thumbs were unsteady and unfamiliar on the keypad of the phone, but he turned on the T9 function so he could text her with at least a bit of legibility.

"_I wasn't feeling well. I'm not good with new people. - Blaine."_

With bated breath, he stared at the cell phone, willing her to respond with a message. Would she? Or was the matter resolved?

She wouldn't text back.

At that moment, the phone vibrated in his hands, and he nearly dropped the damn thing.

"_Puck doesn't count as a person. A dog is classier than that idiot. He's Finn's friend. - K"_

Blaine quashed his impulse to laugh hysterically at the text. It wasn't even that funny. But she had actually _replied._ She found him worthy of her sense of humor.

Even to his own ears, that sounded pathetic. He shook it off. The night was young. He could probably still get away with texting her for a few more minutes without bothering her.

"_Right your brother. Are you with them right now? - Blaine."_

He decided to set the phone down before he did any serious damage to it. He needed to get something into his stomach because pretty soon he was going to start cramping from excitement and that would be a devastating blow to his ego. Unable to even handle text messages! Laughable.

Her response wasn't even brief: "_Yeah, but they're playing the newest Call of Duty. Cannot understand pointless bloodshed. What are you up to? - K_"

She wanted to know what he was _up to_.

So he told her he was heating up a Hot Pocket. Well, he was.

She then freaked out about calories and carbs, which made him laugh, because that was so _like her_. And he told her so.

She loved fashion, but she _adored_ music. She used to sing, and had had big dreams of Broadway. She had tried her luck and lost. Her favorite dessert was a zero-calorie loganberry pumpkin torte, but her local bakery didn't make it anymore. She lamented that fact to him.

They exchanged texts until around ten, when Kurtney said that she was fifteen minutes late on her 'moisturizing routine,' whatever that meant. Blaine swallowed a heavy ball of regret, but they'd been texting for so long... he didn't want to annoy her.

"_Thank you for texting with me_ - _Blaine_."

Her final text message arrived with her newly personalized ringtone (it was the sound of a door bell, for overly sentimental reasons).

"_You don't have to thank me for something like that. I like talking with you. Text me anytime, B. See you Friday ;) - K"_

That last message was locked and saved onto Blaine's phone and memory for eternity.


	5. Chapter 4

_As always, I am _forever_ grateful to everyone for their reviews and favorites. I fangirl so hard when I get a story alert, you guys, you have no idea. The next few weeks are hectic for me right now, but the chapter after this one should be up around the 13th or the 14th. For now, here's a nice, long update. (: The following chapters will _not_ be this long, however._

Disclaimer: It's not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>This was bad.<p>

When Blaine had the opportunity to think over what he said before he said it, his responses to Kurt's texts were utterly adorable.

He found Blaine _so_ charming.

So in essence: this was _bad_. So very bad.

He shouldn't even be becoming _friends_ with the poor guy. Dr. Krugman only wanted simple conversation to draw Blaine out of that shell of his.

Kurt fingered his hair self-consiously. It was getting so long. It hadn't been this long in a while. When he'd first arrived at the job six weeks ago, he already was in desperate need of a haircut. Now it was nearly past the middle of his ears, and he looked like a pageboy. He _hated_ it.

But he couldn't bring himself to cut it.  
>He knew that his normal, perfectly-coiffed hairstyle highlighted his best features <em>very<em> intentionally. But he couldn't have Blaine paying attention to the fact that his jaw wasn't exactly _ladylike_.

He _hated_ having to hide his masculinity.

He glared at the mirror a final time before exiting the car and heading into work. It was Friday.

* * *

><p>Kurt irritatedly tapped the stylus against the tablet screen, unable to figure where he had gone wrong with his scheduling. How in the <em>world<em> had he double-booked the doctor's patients on November third? It was far in the future, too. He was slipping.

He didn't notice when Blaine snuck into the office, and settle quietly down at the sofa. Kurt scowled at the tablet, finally deciding to email "_Jaunders, Phillip_," to reschedule the appointment. He groaned finally, closing the leather case over his tablet. He glanced upwards and immediately straightened.

"Blaine! I -" He scrambled for his thoughts, quickly raking a hand through his bangs as a manner of habit. "I'm sorry, today's... today is _something._ Do you have days like that?"

Blaine nodded noiselessly, and Kurt sighed. He barely caught what Blaine said afterwards: "Every day is like that."

Knowing that was probably a personal statement Blaine didn't want Kurtney to know, Kurt chose not to reply.

They sat in relative silence, Kurt stacking his magazines so he could focus on his work.

There was a quiet cough, and Kurt looked towards Blaine, whose face was burning scarlet. Raising an elegant, trimmed eyebrow, Kurt asked him what was wrong.

"Nothing's wrong," replied Blaine quickly, but his flush didn't fade. "I - I just noticed that you're wearing a McQueen brooch." Like a reflex, Kurt's hand flew to his collarbone, where he had indeed pinned a houndstooth flower brooch to his coat lapel. Kurt nodded, his tongue feeling thick. "T-there's a McQueen exhibit down where I live. Like a collection of his life accomplishments."

Kurt's eyes widened, and he sat forward in the swivel chair. "You're not serious? Do the have any of his pieces?" he asked before he could stop himself. Blaine's lips tightened and he nodded once more. "Even his earlier stuff? I would _kill_ to see some good 2002 era McQueen..." He trailed off when he noticed that Blaine kept fidgeting. He tilted his head at Blaine in question, and Blaine looked to his feet, which was something he did when he was nervous. He knew all of Blaine's habits by now.

"I wanted to tell you because I was wondering if... if you'd like to see the exhibit with me."

Kurt's eyebrows smacked his hairline.

Yeah, this was _bad._

He knew that he had to word everything he said carefully in front of Blaine, and this moment was no different. It was perhaps _more_ necessary now that it had been before.

"Blaine, I'd love to see the exhibit, but I really must ask..." Kurt paused for a moment, trying to phrase it correctly. "...would I be seeing the exhibit with you as a _friend_?"

Blaine flinched for half a beat, almost imperceptibly, but then he was nodding fervently. Kurt bit his lip and glanced towards the door. Dr. Krugman usually interrupted by now. Of course _today_ of all days she wouldn't come in on time.

He had to go with his gut feeling. Normally this didn't end well.

"I'd like to go with you, Blaine," Kurt said gently. "But would Dr. Krugman think -"

"She'd be fine with it," Blaine interrupted swiftly, the words jumbled and nervous. Kurt tightened his jaw and scrutinized Blaine's form.

There wasn't much he could do or say against this man.

"Can I think about it, maybe check my schedule?" Kurt asked desperately. He didn't know if Dr. Krugman would think that this was perhaps the precipice of appropriateness.

Blaine nodded a final time and rose as Dr. Krugman's blurry form began to open the glass door. The doctor opened her mouth to say something, but Blaine rushed past her and into her office. Dr. Krugman glanced towards Kurt inquisitively, but Kurt just gave her a long-suffering look and turned towards his schedule.

So _bad_.

* * *

><p>At the end of Blaine's session, Kurt still couldn't make his decision. He needed to speak with Dr. Krugman before anything.<p>

Blaine exited the doctor's office, his posture stiffening as soon as he spotted Kurt rising from his seat. He looked like he was about to say something, but he closed his mouth.

Knowing that he could possibly lose Blaine's progress without saying something, Kurt blurted his answer: "I'll text you tonight."

Blaine's eyes lit up, the whites wide, making his face seem infinitely more childish.

"I'll expect you," Blaine answered, his voice miniscule, and his eyes remaining locked on Kurt's own. Kurt could feel a blush of his own rise on his cheeks.

Feeling the tension, Blaine made his departure at that moment.

Dr. Krugman came out shortly after, an unamused expression on her face.

God, Kurt didn't want to get _fired _for this.

"I'm sorry," Kurt apologized immediately. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Do you have something to apologize for?" she asked sharply. "Can you tell me why my patient was practically comatose with nerves in his session today?"

"He asked me to meet him _outside_ of the office, and I -" Kurt swallowed heavily. "I didn't know if that would be all right. If that was appropriate, or, you know, legal."

Dr. Krugman nodded slowly, the motion reminding Kurt of Blaine. She sat down lithely on the edge of the receptionist desk, and sighed softly.

"I feel that I have to once more take advantage of you, Kurt," she said gravely. "I must implore you to accept his invitation."

Kurt groaned, falling back into his seat. "Dr. Krugman, this is an entirely different ball game," Kurt said weakly. "I _do_ enjoy Blaine's company. But what if he thinks this is something _more_? What if someone recognizes me? Calls me by name? If he finds out I'm a boy, won't that ruin _everything_?"

"I feel it is a risk we need to take," she answered, and Kurt was beginning to get more than a bit frustrated with the woman.

"But is it your decision?" he asked, anger tinting his words. "Who says you can decide whether or not to gamble on Blaine's progress?"

"I regret your attitude," the doctor bit out, glaring at him. "I have been Blaine's therapist for going on two years now. I feel that I would have a better handle on whether or not Blaine is prepared for such a step. Far more qualified than _you,_ Kurt."

Kurt simmered beneath the surface, grinding his teeth as he glowered at her. Finally, he exhaled, nodding submissively. She didn't say another word. She pivoted on her heel and strode back into her office. Kurt leaned forward on his elbow and shoved his fingers into the crown of his hair.

He glanced towards his BlackBerry, which slightly protruded from his bag, the little light in the corner occasionally blinking.

If things were bad _now_, he didn't want to know how bad they were going to become.

He grabbed his cell phone and sent off the text before he lost his nerve.

* * *

><p>Sunday morning was extremely frustrating for Kurt.<p>

He had texted Blaine that he would be happy to go with him to the exhibit, and he'd meet him on Sunday if that was all right.

Friday night around six he had received the reply.

"_Sunday is perfect, could we meet around noon unless that's too early?_"

Of course, Kurt was finding himself become weaker and weaker against Blaine requests, so he immediately agreed to the time.

But he was going to be in public with a man who thought he was a woman.

He was clearly not.

He had riffled through his wardrobe at least twelve times, trying to construct the perfect outfit that was _just_ gender-ambiguous enough.

Kurt yanked at his hair, still hating its length, but thankful for it today. It would help his disguise at any rate. Finally he settled on his outfit: a floral collared shirt with a maroon cardigan beneath it, and skinny jeans that took him a full eight minutes to tug on. He was getting better at the skinny jean dance, but these grey acid wash jeans challenged him. He pulled on a charcoal blazer, and turned around to see himself in the full-length mirror.

A girl would wear this outfit, wouldn't she?  
>Would <em>Kurtney<em>?

It needed some more femininity. He knew what would give it that final touch.

Glancing towards his desk and the music box that sat atop it, he knew that after he put that final touch on, there would be no going back.

He opened up the jewelry box, a _ping_ hitting the air as the turn in the back hadn't been completely static. The sound caused a rush of nostalgia and he nearly slammed the lid shut. He steeled himself from panicking, and he reached forward for the necklace he needed.

It was a Swarovski daisy on a delicate gold chain. It would _make_ the outfit.

It had belonged to his mother.

He remembered it hanging loosely across her chest, his face pressed hard against it as he hugged her tightly. He remembered the permeance of her perfume (only recently had he found it at Macy's; _Organza_ by Givenchy. He'd almost cried in the store).

His swallow was heavy and difficult.

Fastening the latch around his neck, he looked at it in the tiny mirror in the jewelry box. It hung around his clavicle, teasing him, reminding him of how _wrong_ this was.

He shut the box then, tugged on his grey boots and put on his white fedora before rushing out the door.

* * *

><p>Kurt could see Blaine standing at the edge of the street corner when he departed the Red Line at the WilshireVermont station. He _would_ have taken his car, but he didn't want to make Blaine uncomfortable by being the only ones alone in the car.

But seeing Blaine alone on that platform, it was suddenly _everything_ he wanted. He certainly wouldn't mind being alone with him in the car.

The shorter man's hair was gelled today in an obvious attempt to tame it. He was wearing a periwinkle collared shirt with a navy sweater over it, and skinny khakis. The bow tie he adorned was adorable as well; it was a sophisticated plaid.

Kurt walked swiftly from the train towards Blaine. As soon as the man spotted him, his face broke into an enormous smile, and Kurt was momentarily shaken by the magnitude of it.

"You actually came," Blaine mumbled incredulously. Kurt furrowed his brows.

"Of course I did, I told you I would," Kurt replied, confused. Blaine hummed lightly at this, and motioned ahead of him.

"The exhibit's only a few blocks walk. I hope you don't mind. I don't have a car..."

"That's fine, that's fine," Kurt assured, gently squeezing Blaine's shoulder as he passed. Blaine froze at the motion and Kurt thought. terrified, that he'd taken things too far. But then Blaine's face erupted into a pink blush and his lips twisted into a permanent smile and Kurt knew he hadn't gone too far at all.

They walked in silence on the sidewalk, Kurt occasionally looking towards the curly-haired man. He noticed how phobic he was of strangers even _touching_ him, and he shrunk away from every male person that even came close to him.

Distraction.

"How close by to the station do you live?" Kurt asked conversationally. Blaine's head whipped towards him, and he bit his lip.

"I live on 6th Street, so it's less than half a mile."

"I live over near the Metro Center," Kurt replied genially, trying to push Blaine to talk a bit more. "So I'm not too far."

Blaine kept watching Kurt as he spoke, and Kurt felt a bit flustered. "So when does the exhibit open?"

"It opens at eight," Blaine said quietly, his eyes finally shifting from Kurt's. "Closes by five, so we have plenty of time."  
>"Do you mind if we get something to eat first?" Kurt questioned lightly. "I haven't eaten anything all day."<p>

Blaine nodded, smiling at Kurt. "There's a nice café nearby if you'd like to go there. They have paninis, if you're into that."

"I'd kill for a good non-fat mocha right now, too," Kurt gushed. "Lead the way, good sir." He wove his arm beneath Blaine's, looking at him expectantly to show the direction. Blaine's laughter was bubbly and a bit hysterical as he led Kurt.

* * *

><p>"This panini is to die for," moaned Kurt. "Tomato, fig, and goat cheese. Absolutely flawless. Would you like a bite?"<p>

"I'm fine here," Blaine replied, taking a bite of his frittata. "Unless you'd like a bit of this?"

"I would, actually, that's looking quite delicious," Kurt answered, his lips twisting upwards. Blaine leaned forward, over the table, held it out towards Kurt to take.

Surprising himself with his boldness, Kurt didn't take the frittata. Instead he leaned forward, took Blaine's hand, and took a bite of the frittata. He chewed slowly, nearly choking with effort to not laugh at Blaine's completely gobsmacked expression. He raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all," Blaine commented, his voice cracking a bit. He cleared his throat self-consciously and Kurt shot him a smirk.

There was a tinkling of bells as the glass door to the café opened. Over Blaine's shoulder, Kurt was horrified to see that he recognized the person who had just come through the door.

And of course, with Kurt's luck, of course Sam Evans caught Kurt's eye in that moment. The blonde man grinned widely, and waved enthusiastically. Kurt raised a hand weakly towards him. Blaine tilted his head in question, then glanced behind him to see Sam.

"Do you know him?" Blaine asked quietly, his blush and any playful camaraderie having vanished. Kurt was going to answer but Sam was calling his name.

His _real_ name.

"Kurt, I haven't seen you in forever!" Sam said excitedly, making his way to their table. "Are you working around here?"  
>"Sam, it's Sunday," Kurt answered weakly, trying to distract Blaine from the fact that Sam had <em>just called him Kurt.<em> "I'm here with a friend."

Sam's eyes slid to Kurt's companion and smiled at Blaine widely. "Nice to meet you, man, I'm Sam. I was friends with Kurt here in high school."

"It's like everyone came to L.A. after McKinley," Kurt joked, but it was a flimsy attempt.

"Nah, just you and me. Rachel went to New York, didn't she? And weren't you in like, Greece?"

"Italy," Kurt corrected immediately. Sam nodded, his wide mouth still in a friendly smile. He seemed to notice Blaine's uncomfortableness. He cleared his throat loudly and darted his eyes towards Blaine in question, then back at Kurt. Kurt glared at him, trying to clearly convey to Sam that this was _not_ the time. "Sam, it was lovely seeing you, but we have to get going."

"I understand. Things to see, people to do," Sam said flippantly, winking at Blaine. Blaine's lips tightened to the point that his mouth was simply a horizontal line. "We should catch up later, Kurt."

"Definitely," Kurt put in quickly, cursing Sam for using his name _again_. He stood, Blaine mimicking the action silently. "Definitely we should. Facebook me, won't you?"

"Sure."

Kurt grasped at Blaine's wrist and gently tugged him from the café, panini clasped in his other hand. They exited the coffee house, breathing in the crisp air. Blaine coughed and kept his eyes downward.

"Let's go to the exhibit, right now," Kurt said firmly, and Blaine nodded. "Which way is it? Can you lead the way?"

Blaine nodded once more and stepped in front of Kurt, his wrist dropping from Kurt's grasp. Irritatedly, Kurt took a few quick paces so he'd be step in step with Blaine. He didn't want that short encounter with Sam to ruin their day.

* * *

><p>The exhibit was nothing compared to the Met's, Kurt thought once they were perusing the museum. He desperately wanted that one to come on tour ever since he saw it back in high school.<p>

Blaine had been mute since their chance meeting with Sam. Kurt was becoming more and more incensed with that, but he knew that he had to be patient; he was only now understanding the extent of Blaine's androphobia.

He couldn't get into the exhibit at all once his thoughts drifted to Blaine. He was jumbled and confused over his own feelings but most especially he felt _guilty_ because he knew just how badly Blaine could be... _traumatized_ if he found out about Kurt being male.

Sighing, Kurt turned to Blaine, whose eyes were peeled to the display of one of McQueen's early 1996 Givenchy works. Blaine must have felt Kurt's gaze on him, but he didn't turn. Kurt fingered the gold chain around his neck lightly, rolling the daisy between his fingers.

"Do you want to leave?" Kurt asked quietly, and that caused Blaine to turn, his eyes wide.

"Do you?" Blaine questioned back, his voice small and apprehensive.

"Sort of," he replied honestly, and Blaine's shoulders slumped. "Here, let's head out, shall we?"

Blaine's nod was especially glum, and they exited the museum in utter silence.

Kurt didn't know what to say to Blaine. He didn't seem to want to talk about Sam at all.

Maybe he had really caught onto Sam calling him Kurt.

Maybe he was over-thinking things.

"Could you walk me to the train station?" Kurt asked delicately and Blaine flinched. Guilt rushed through Kurt.

"Sure."

The walk there was quiet as well, and Blaine stood a good arm's length from him as they ambled along the sidewalk.

They arrived at the station, and Blaine looked more despondent than before. Kurt pursed his lips and glanced around them to see if anyone was looking. Not a soul.

Because he and Blaine were seemingly two men departing from each other at a platform.

He darted forward and pressed his lips to Blaine's cheek, trying to keep himself in that fantasy of them being _two men_, with Blaine accepting him for his gender and accepting himself for all his fears and apparent flaws.

His cheek was rough with stubble but so _warm_.

When he pulled away, Blaine's eyes were large and his mouth was open slightly. Kurt flushed and wrung his fingers together.

"Thank you for today," he said quietly to Blaine.

With that, he spun around and rushed down the stairs to reach his train, cursing his gall.


	6. Chapter 5

_Seriously, thank you for all your reviews and story alerts! Next chapter should be up around... let's say the 18th as a tentative date. Once again, thank you!_

Disclaimer: It's not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>Blaine had been staring at his computer for the last fifteen minutes, a mug of chamomile grasped in his hands. He let the steam rise in milky tendrils over his face. Finally he sat down at the black dining chair, and he set the mug of tea on a circular coaster.<p>

His fingers hesitated over the keys of his computer.

He knew that this was the tipping point. Searching someone's name on Google was really that escarpment into stalker-dom.

But he couldn't resist anymore. There was a constant nagging in the back of his mind about this girl that he couldn't stop if he tried. There was something _wrong_ about her, and he knew that he probably had the answers at his fingertips. The Internet held all the answers in the world. He didn't have a single one.

His cheek still smoldered from that kiss.

It had burned when her lips brushed against his face. It was a sudden influx of warmth that he hadn't prepared for.

Feeling himself grow more embarrassed at the memory, especially his reaction to her boldness, he decided, in that moment, to take the initiative. He could settle that irritating feeling once and for all.

All it took was typing in her name. He'd have the answer.

Did he really want it, though?

He inhaled shakily, and tapped the keys quickly.

_Kurtney Hummel_.

The page loaded rapidly, and his eyes grazed the results.

There wasn't a single result having to do with his Kurtney, though.

There was a Twitter for a girl named Courtney in Indiana with the same last name, but it wasn't her.

There was a Facebook for another girl, this time actually named Kurtney. But that wasn't her, either.

Growing more and more frustrated, Blaine tried to narrow his search.

_Kurtney Hummel Los Angeles._

_Kurtney Hummel Italy._

_Kurtney Elizabeth Hummel_.

Not a single answer.

Something suddenly occurred to him as he leaned back in his rickety seat. The thought made his tongue swell and he swallowed heavily.

What had that man called Kurtney in the café?

He'd shortened her name. He'd called her _Kurt_.

Kurtney had never asked Blaine to call her Kurt. Besides, Kurt... that was a _boy_'s name, right? Wasn't that short for - Curtis, or something? Why would she want to be called that? She hadn't corrected the man at all.

Fingers trembling, Blaine inputted the new name into the search field, a foreboding feeling of dread settling in his stomach.

_Kurt Hummel_.

Immediately the results expanded.

There was a Facebook page for a Kurt Hummel.

There was a page in Italian, listing all the interns at Miu Miu.

There was a review for Kurt Hummel's performance with a 'glee club' at William McKinley High School, dated from 2011.

Blaine's heartbeat was jumping erratically.

Kurtney wasn't her name.

He clicked on the result for Kurtney's -_ Kurt's_ - high school performance.

The picture made him blanch.

A young, pale man with the face of a doll had his arm outstretched with a tiny brunette girl beside him, his mouth open with the man in the middle of an obvious note. Blaine didn't think_ his_ gender was that contestable. But that wasn't where he found his answer.

Those _eyes_.

Those eyes had haunted his dreams for weeks.

Kurtney wasn't her name. She wasn't even a 'her.'

A horrified sob ripped its way from Blaine's throat, and he stood violently from his chair, unable to face what the images on his computer clearly told him.

It explained why Kurtney wore such masculine clothing. Why she had been so hesitant to come out with him. Why she didn't correct that Sam man for calling her Kurt.

Kurtney Elizabeth Hummel didn't exist, and she had never existed.

Blaine's entire body was quaking, and his legs gave out beneath him. He fell over his chair, crashing to the ground, his knee smashing onto the wood.

He didn't want to believe it. Maybe she was transgender, he tried to convince himself. Maybe she has a twin brother, and that man was teasing her.

But he was ignoring the truth that was so blatantly staring him in the face.

He felt dizzy with bewilderment, and he was sickened to know that he felt _ashamed_.

Was he really so pathetic that Kurt had to take pity on him and call himself a girl to not offend him? It was true that if he had known Kurt was male since the beginning, he would have avoided him like the plague. It's what he did with every man.

Did she - _he_ - know the degree of which he admired and revered him? How Kurtney had been a ray of light in an otherwise dismal existence? The melodramatics of the situation made his stomach turn. Did Nora know?

She had to.

He suddenly felt nauseous, and vomit rose violently in the back of his throat. He dashed to the bathroom and kneeled in front of the porcelain, clutching its sides desperately.

Nora _knew_. She'd _hired_ Kurt after all.

She'd been playing him for a fool for _weeks_.

He'd placed his trust in her. She was his doctor. Wasn't she _bound_ to help him?

He hiccoughed through his tears, feeling more and more sorry for himself.

Then it was replaced by rage. Hot, sticky rage.

Kurt and the doctor had no right to lie to him like that. To forcibly place him in the presence of a man. Were they trying to condition him? The method was ..._cruel_.

He'd thought he was getting better. He was finally able to take charge in a situation.

He'd never been in charge at all.

Blaine blindly grabbed for his cell phone, sending off an email rapidly.

The coldness of the metal faucet underneath his hand grounded him a bit. He pulled the stopper to fill up the sink with near-arctic water.

When it was filled to overflowing, he let his face sink into it and let the frigidity embrace him once more.

* * *

><p>Regressing was too nice a word for what Blaine was going through. He knew it, too.<p>

Two weeks had passed since the Kurtney/Kurt revelation. His apartment had fallen into more of a disastrous disarray, with his bookcases having been overturned with his fits of rage that hit him without warning, and the floors covered in loose papers.

The newspaper had called him a few times, but they'd stopped once they realized they weren't going to get an answer. It was nice to know someone was thinking about him.

Blaine knew there was someone else who was thinking about him, too.

He had thrown his cell phone against the wall six days ago, the plastic of it shattering off and ricocheting off the wood. He couldn't stand its constant chirping. He _knew_ there were over thirty unread text messages, and sixteen voice mails, all from a single source.

He hadn't smoked since high school. He used to score medicinal pot to help with his anxiety, but he somehow always hit a high where he felt _more_ paranoid instead of mellow. But he'd hit cigarettes hard for a while.

The twisting smoke in the air reminded him of the swirls of steam from tea. He took a final pull from the cigarette and flicked the butt into the wastebasket.

He laid on his back, watching the lights of cars going by reflect on the ceiling. There was a crash of glass from outside and shouted words. He glanced over at the mirror, laying in pieces against the opposite wall.

He was _calm_ for once.

All he wanted was to feel _nothing_.

He fell asleep as he saw dawn creeping onto the sky.

* * *

><p>When he woke up, his ears felt like they had been stuffed with sticky dough. He tried to pop them with a yawn but no luck.<p>

What had woken him up?

He glanced towards the clock. It was eight in the morning.

Too early. Too _bright_.

The curtains opened themselves, the light invading every inch of the room, and he threw his hand up as a shield irritatedly. He swore half-heartedly and leaned his head back to try and find that peaceful darkness.

"You can't just leave yourself to die."

That _voice_.

His eyelids were so heavy, but he managed to look upwards.

An angel stood there with his arms crossed, his eyes far off, looking out the window. His jaw was tight with tension. The light, though rather dim and reflecting in rays because of the smoke, bounced off his profile _perfectly_. If Blaine hadn't already been mute, he would have been struck speechless.

But everything seemed to be moving behind a hazy film across his eyes. He fell backwards once more, and he heard a distinct sigh that wasn't his own.

He drifted off then, only able to feel his bedcovers come up to reach his chin.

* * *

><p>The second time he awoke was at 2 P.M.<p>

He blinked blearily, looking about his apartment. The bookcases in the corner had been righted, and from the looks of it, the books organized. Papers were stacked somewhat haphazardly back on his desk. His black chair was up-righted.

The electric kettle was plugged in, the little red light on it indicating it was maintaining a certain temperature.

There was a distant shaking of keys, and his front door opened. He couldn't see his new visitor. He sat up, all the blood rushing to his head and he swayed slightly, even though he was sitting. He bent forward and put his head in his hands to stop the pounding.

There was clacking of boots around his kitchenette, and that unique sound of plastic bags shuffling.

Blaine only looked up weakly when the boots made their way to his bed.

"Are you awake now?"

He nodded.

"I'm not going to let you rot, Blaine. I don't know what brought you to such a state but - just let me _help_ you."

Blaine's mind was too muddled to think of a protest, couldn't find a reason to not trust this voice. Or those eyes.

He nodded.

"Hold out your arms."

He complied, holding his arms above his head. The angel put his arm beneath Blaine's, and supported him upwards. They stumbled clumsily towards the bathroom, and Blaine sat down ungracefully on the edge of the bathtub.

"I'll be right back. Don't fall asleep," the angel warned, and he was gone.

Blaine counted the seconds mutely as he waited for the angel to return. He hadn't even reached fifteen before he was back with the black dining chair. He put it against the sink and helped Blaine up once more.

"Sit in the chair, please," he requested, and Blaine followed the order. Gentle hands made his head lean back and the sink began to rush with cold water.

Fingers caressed his scalp. He sighed lightly as his hair was sifted with delicate touches. A snap crackled through the air, and he felt the shampoo get drizzled onto his head. He let his neck relax even further and simply unwound with the feeling of the shampoo suds slipping down his forehead.

He was tilted upwards with ease, and a soft towel tousled his black hair.

He lifted his arms abidingly and he felt the cotton of his shirt graze past his nose. A damp washcloth rubbed against him, the movement soothing and welcome.

"Drink this, Blaine."

A teal mug with swirling coils of steam was pressed into his hands and he drank deeply with compliance.

Spearmint.

* * *

><p>Blaine hadn't woken up feeling refreshed in days. But he felt renewed when he woke up that Wednesday morning. He'd slept through the entire night, but he didn't feel sickened with oversleep.<p>

He had been cocooned in foreign blankets, their fresh detergent smell comforting.

Sitting up carefully to avoid any repeats of earlier, he saw that the apartment was nearly lacking all its earlier clutter.

Shelves were organized with alphabetical sets of books. Everything was righted.

Confusedly he stood from the bed, walking out into the main room of his apartment.

He couldn't say that he was exactly _surprised_ to see Kurt Hummel sleeping in that black dining chair, but the sight did startle him.

There was a certain softness that he felt in his chest when he saw Kurt dozing there, obviously exhausted. He tried to recall that early acrimony, but he was emotionally debilitated. Instead he simply pulled up his only other chair (a rather pathetic footstool) and straddled it, watching the rise and fall of Kurt's breathing.

There was a fluttering of Kurt's eyelashes right before he opened his eyes. He looked dazed for a moment, glancing about, but then his eyes locked onto Blaine's. They widened.

"Blaine, are you feeling any better?" he asked softly, his voice so much more timid than how it had been earlier. It lacked that authority. Blaine nodded infinitesimally, and the relief was plainly evident on Kurt's face. "I found your address in the file, and I called your landlord to see if anything was wrong, and... I was so _worried_ when you just up and canceled all your appointments. Especially after... after what happened. Did I -"

"You did do something wrong," Blaine said quietly. "I realized about Kurtney. You've never been a girl, and you never will be, will you?"

Kurt's eyes were still as wide as ever. The pale man nodded his head silently, and Blaine exhaled, the movement more therapeutic than he'd thought.

He couldn't bring himself to be mad anymore. He was just _tired_ of being tired with people.

"Thank you for taking care of me," he mumbled, eyes still stuck on Kurt's. Kurt's shoulders slumped slightly, and a nervous, slight smile graced his face.

"That's not something you have to thank me for."


	7. Chapter 6

_EVERYONE, thank you so much for all of your support, including the reviews, the alerts, all that jazz. I'd say the next chapter should be out around the 25th or the 26th. Hit me up on tumblr (flirtykurty there too)! Without further ado, here's chapter six._

_Disclaimer_: It's not true, so don't sue.

* * *

><p>"You didn't have anything in your apartment to eat so I went to Whole Foods to get some things."<p>

Blaine nodded mutely, simply watching Kurt putter around the kitchen. The man cracked a stalk of celery off and began chopping it finely.

"You didn't have a slow-cooker, either, so I brought the Crockpot." Kurt quickly swept the entire amount of celery into the pot and capped it with the clear lid. "It's been stewing for a while now, but you want the celery to stay crisp, you know. Soggy celery is just _awful_."

He's stalling.

"And you know, when you boil vegetables and drain the water, they lose a lot of the nutrients. So by slow-cooking -"

"Kurt," Blaine interrupted quietly. "You're stalling."

Kurt looked at him indignantly. "And why do you think that?"

"I'm a master at it."

At that, Kurt's shoulders slumped and his eyes darted back to the slow-cooker. His hands slid into his back pockets and he sighed heavily.

"I am, just a bit," Kurt responded, his voice reticent. It was silent between them briefly, before Kurt reached for a ladle and began spooning out a helping into a bowl for Blaine. He passed it to the curly-haired man, who took it without a word.

Blaine sipped it from the spoon carefully. The crisp celery_did_ make a difference.

"We need to talk," affirmed Kurt, and Blaine nodded once more. Kurt pulled up the footstool that he had been using as a chair. Blaine was horribly embarrassed that it was the only chair that he had in his apartment, but this wasn't the time.

They took a moment to let the silence settle over them a final time. Blaine carefully observed his stew, stirring it slowly. He heard Kurt inhale in a steady, prolonged breath, and he looked up to watch him speak.

"I never meant to hurt you," Kurt began deliberately. "I know that's a shit excuse, if you'll pardon my French." Blaine didn't reply. Kurt cleared his throat cautiously. "Before I came to work the first day, Dr. Krugman warned me that there were some patients that were androphobic, and I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable." He ran a quick rake of his fingers through his bangs, which had slightly drooped after the steam rising from the Crockpot.

Blaine took another spoonful of soup and chewed thoughtfully. He looked upwards at Kurt, who was looking more and more nervous as the seconds passed. How the tables had turned.

He sighed and held the porcelain bowl carefully between his hands.

"I'm having... trouble," he started. "I don't know if I should be angry at you..."

"You have every right to be -"

"-or grateful, because I wouldn't have talked to _anybody_ if it hadn't been for you."

That struck Kurt completely speechless. His mouth opened slightly, his jaw bobbing before he snapped it shut. He pressed his lips together finely.

"That's your personal strength, Blaine, that's not me," he said quietly, echoing his previous sentiments. Blaine shook his head vehemently.

"It's completely you."

"You don't think you've gotten stronger?"

"I've gotten stronger because of _you._"

Again, Kurt couldn't say a thing. A rouge blush tinged the pale boy's ears as he looked downwards, mirroring a past Blaine. Blaine smiled at the comparison.

Quite honestly, in a few hours he expected that he'd panic and realize just how smooth he'd been in talking with Kurt, and overanalyze every word he said.

But for now, it was natural, organic and fluid.

"I'm not going back to Nora, though," Blaine said, changing the subject abruptly, causing Kurt's eyes to dart upwards towards him.

"Why's that?"

"I... I'm not sure I can forgive her as easily," Blaine said slowly, feeling a bit embarrassed at the thought. "I see her reason. I hate her methods."

"My methods."

"Those, too, but I... I find it very, very hard to stay mad at you."

Kurt's mouth twisted into a heartbreaking smile at that point and he laughed softly. "I know what you mean, Blaine," he said compassionately, pacing his forgotten bowl of soup on Blaine's counter. "I don't know if I'm capable of getting mad at you."

"We're in a pickle then."

"An impassé. But you know, I prefer it like this," Kurt mused. "As long as you still want to keep me around. I'll stay as long as I'm welcome."

"Stay as long as you can," Blaine muttered, knowing that he was probably sounding... _untoward_, but Kurt didn't seem to mind. "As long as _you_ want to."

Kurt glanced towards the table, which sat in the corner and was mostly forgotten. They'd simply been sitting in chairs. "Your apartment is very bare of furniture," he commented, and Blaine nodded.

"I don't have a lot of company."

"That's no excuse for a lack of furniture. You don't have to have a person per item of furniture in the apartment, you know."

"It's more efficient," Blaine replied, and Kurt rolled his eyes.

"That's awful. Just _awful_. I'm going to buy you good furniture. A dining set."

"Why would I need a dining set?" asked Blaine incredulously. "I don't... _dine._"

"But you could," Kurt pointed out. "And if everything is out in the open between us now, then I think I'll be over here quite a lot."

Blaine contemplated this shortly.

He wasn't panicking even though Kurt was very _clearly_ male. It was hard to ignore now. How had he missed the Adam's apple? Not to mention Kurt's jawline, not quite broad but enough to ensure masculinity. And the whole lack-of-breasts situation.

He didn't feel the spine jitters or that instinct building in his feet telling him to run.

"Blaine?"

Blaine glanced towards Kurt, who was looking at Blaine worriedly. "Is everything all right?"

"Why are you different?" Blaine wondered, his voice low. "Why do I not mind you?"

Kurt seemingly chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. "I don't know, Blaine."

"I'm normally so good with genders."

"I'll trust you on that."

"Maybe the reason I thought you were..." He swallowed heavily. "The reason I thought you were Kurtney was because I wasn't _afraid_ of you."

Kurt's breath hitched visibly and his gaze on Blaine grew wider.

"And..." Kurt raked his fingers through his thoroughly tousled bangs. "A-and that's...?"

"That's new," Blaine breathed. "But good new."

The smile on Kurt's face was incredible, and extraordinarily contagious.

* * *

><p>The Crockpot stew grew soggy and Kurt admitted that he wasn't the best hand at cooking ("Baking's my strong suit, sorry about your kitchen").<p>

Blaine didn't have a TV, which Kurt was slightly horrified about, but he did have a pocket radio, and there was the light crooning of some oldies singer in the background as Kurt fussed around Blaine's home.

Together they opened every window in the apartment, the briskness of the autumn night air making the rooms crisp.

They sat on the edge of the window, their legs dangling in the wind, four stories up. They spooned organic ice cream lazily as they watched the bustle of the Los Angeles street below them die.

A warm weight rested itself on Blaine's shoulder. He turned slightly and chestnut-brown hair obscured his vision. A sudden waft of Kurt's scent infected his senses: vanilla and cleanliness and just _Kurt._ Sighing contentedly, Blaine let his head in turn fall onto Kurt's, and they relaxed, supporting one another.

"I'm sorry that I lied to you," Kurt said softly.

Blaine didn't reply to that, but he knew Kurt felt his shoulder slump minutely.

"I just want to leave all of that behind us," Blaine responded gently, finally. Kurt nodded.

"I'm fine with that," the blue-eyed man murmured. "We don't have to forget that it happened. But we can stay in the moment for as long as we'd like." Blaine liked the sound of that.

"I don't know if this is too much to ask," Blaine began quietly after a moment. Kurt's head tilted towards him and gave Blaine a view of those eyes that _still_ found their way into Blaine's every thought. "Could you stay tonight? Just one last night."

"I told you earlier," Kurt reprimanded half-heartedly, his eyes drifting closed. "I'm staying as long as I'm welcome." Blaine smiled at that, just a hint of a crook at the edge of his lips. "By the way, you've gotten a lot more suave just over the weekend. You're smooth now."

"Smooth?"

"Sure."

"I..." Blaine shook his head. "To be plain, I guess... I think I'm just tired of being uncomfortable around you. I might just relapse later."

"Please don't. And honestly, Blaine, is that how things work with you?" Kurt asked, tone full of disbelief. "I thought you were going to say something corny, you know, like you've _grown_ up, seen the error of your ways... _tired__of__being__uncomfortable_, my fucking word..."

Blaine laughed loudly, making a neighbor below screech at them to go to sleep. "Screw you!" Kurt yelled down, laughing when they slammed their window shut.

"I'll take the chair," Blaine said, standing up and holding out a hand to help Kurt. Kurt took it graciously and Blaine marveled for half a second at just how _soft_ Kurt always was.

"That's not happening," Kurt deadpanned, sending a glare towards Blaine. "I absolutely _refuse_ to take your bed, that's _so_rude."

"I'll take the floor beside the bed," Blaine tried to reason, smiling weakly. "I'll be right there."

"That's not necessarily the _problem..._"

"Kurt."

Kurt rolled his eyes once more, making Blaine snicker and shake his head. "Fine, Mr. Gentleman. I'll fold to your heathenish rules." Kurt strode ahead of Blaine, walking into Blaine's bedroom.

"What a relief," Blaine replied, quickly following him.

"You actually sleep in a double bed," Kurt said, disbelievingly. "Isn't it small?"

"It's fine for me."

"I honestly should have expected a twin."

"Probably."

Kurt fell backwards onto Blaine's bed, spreading his arms out. The image caused Blaine to chuckle once more because his wrists and ankles hung off the sides. Forcing his head up slightly, Kurt raised an eyebrow at Blaine.

"It's not my fault your bed is tiny, Blaine," he retorted. Blaine pulled a pillow gently from below Kurt's head, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. "Take the down, too."

"The -"

The foreign comforter from earlier was thrust into his arms, and he took it gratefully.

"Good night, Kurt."

"See you in the morning, Blaine."

* * *

><p>A sharp, stinging slap, and a rough blow to the shoulder.<p>

He's sent reeling backwards, and a sturdy grip pulls him back.

Musk. The sharp nose of wine.

A scrape of unshaved stubble against his jaw. A harsh drag of uncut fingernails against his arm, prickling, drawing blood.

A violent rush to the head, and a crash.

There were hands on him when he bolted upwards, his entire being covered in sweat. He felt the panic attack coming on before it happened. His chest tightened, each breath harder than the last, becoming impossible to exhale...  
>"Blaine."<p>

The hands caressed his face gently and he opened his eyes to find the silhouette of Kurt's face. He felt his breath catching in his throat, the gaze of Kurt's eyes completely hypnotic.

"Blaine, it was a dream," soothed Kurt, his voice lethargic.

Blaine's heartbeat kept racing but he slowly was able to regain his breathing. He kept his eyes completely locked upon Kurt's, unwilling to look away. He nodded slowly, his head still held _so__gently_ by Kurt's caring hands.

"Would you like to talk -"

He shook his head almost frantically, and Kurt nodded his understanding. He held his arms out towards Blaine, comforting and welcoming. Every barrier that Blaine felt in that moment was completely stripped.

He didn't feel awkward, or stumbling, or irritating. He didn't know anything else in that moment other than that Kurt's embrace looked _so__damn__wonderful_ right then that he couldn't think of anything else.

Blaine launched himself towards Kurt, the force of his pace knocking Kurt backwards slightly. He felt Kurt envelop him with his arms and he rested against Kurt's torso, willing his heartbeat to slow. He nestled his head in the crook between Kurt's head and shoulder, and let his arms wrap around Kurt's chest. If he pressed his head tight enough to Kurt's neck, he could feel the steady rate of Kurt's pulse.

They didn't say a word to each other, and let their collective warmth keep them calm and steady. Kurt leaned them back a bit more so they were resting upon the pillows.

They slept.


	8. Chapter 7

_Hello everyone! It's been a while, more than a month. My most-important college apps and NaNoWriMo are finally over, so I'm back to writing fanfiction. I have to say, I really missed it. This chapter really just flowed for me. Once again, thank you for all your reviews and your favorites! Remember, all my updates will come on tumblr at flirtykurty, so check there too. I'll probably be posting my NaNoWriMo there eventually too. Enjoy!_

**Disclaimer:** It's not true, so please don't sue. Katy Perry too.

* * *

><p>When Blaine woke up, the side of the bed that he occupied was warm and comforting. He closed his eyes once more, trying to regain blissful, dreamless sleep. In doing so, he turned over slightly and his arm brushed over the opposite side of the sheets.<p>

They were cold.

His eyes snapped open and he bolted upwards. He frantically looked around the room, throwing the sheets and the duvet cover off of himself.

Kurt was gone.

_How stupid he was_.

Blaine didn't realize what the shooting pain in his head was until he realized had tangled his hands in his curls, yanking hard. He was breathing hard and heavy, and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the panic take over his chest and his mind.

_He'd been abandoned_ again.

"Blaine, do you drink skim or 2%? I bought both just in case."

Looking upwards, Blaine saw Kurt in the doorway, holding two cartons of milk, one green and one blue. The slender man raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you want breakfast? You've slept in, you know." Kurt gathered both cartons in his arms and fished his phone out of his pocket. "It's nearly ten."

"I didn't realize," Blaine said quietly, and Kurt smirked, shoving his phone away.

"Obviously. Now, we have to talk about something," Kurt said gravely. "I found Captain Crunch in your cabinet, and you _must_ know how much sugar is in that. It's just awful. I bought organic granola, it's _much_ better for you..."

"I like Captain Crunch," replied Blaine defensively, shrinking back at the reproving look Kurt gave him. Kurt's gaze softened and he laughed, a lovely, musical sound.

"Fine. Have your Captain Crunch."

Kurt walked out of Blaine's bedroom, leaving Blaine sitting there in warm silence.

* * *

><p>When he came out to the kitchen, Blaine found Kurt sitting down, drinking coffee and scrolling through his tablet, scrunching up his nose occasionally.<p>

"What are you doing?" Blaine asked. Kurt held up the tablet and waved it slightly.

"I'm checking how many calories you've taken in over the past few years. You're going to die of _heart disease_ if you don't clean up your act, young man." Blaine scoffed and Kurt rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you're worse than my dad. I have to fight him to buy the veggie wrap instead of the hamburger _every time_, and that's after he had a heart attack. You'd think he'd have a bit better sense." Kurt took a long pull from his coffee and winced. "Ugh. Starbucks later?"

"How are you so awake in the morning?" He slumped into a chair, and Kurt pushed a bowl full of Captain Crunch to him.

"You have to eat. I'm not letting you fall into shock or anything," Kurt scolded, and waggled a finger at him. "No relapses."

Blaine ducked his head meekly at this and took the milk from the center of the table and splashed his cereal with it.

They were in silence for a moment, Blaine sleepily chewing on the cereal and Kurt occasionally tapping upon his tablet to open up a new link. Blaine looked up at the pale man.

He wished he knew how he was so comfortable around Kurt. He had felt uneasy around men since junior high. He felt blackened panic creep up his spine but he silenced it by focusing hard upon his breathing.

"Blaine, there's something we need to talk about."

Blaine looked up at him, swallowing hard, squashing his attack. He nodded warily. Kurt sighed and pressed the power button in the tablet, the image immediately fading to black.

"Do you think I should quit my job for Dr. Krugman?" Kurt asked, tone serious, and Blaine's eyebrows shot up. Blaine pursed his lips and looked down to his cereal, no longer hungry.

"Do you need the money?" he asked, his voice small, and he heard Kurt's chair shifting.  
>"I do," came his answer, and Blaine shrunk further. "Blaine, look at me."<p>

After a moment, Blaine did, and he saw Kurt's blue eyes looking at him with concern. The man seemed to be struggling with his words.

"I do need the money," he began carefully. "But I can't say that I agree with her methods."

"You followed along with them," Blaine pointed out, and Kurt flinched. Blaine immediately felt guilty, remembering how he'd said that he wanted to 'put it all behind them.' Kurt nodded slowly before Blaine could stumble over a retraction.

"That's true," Kurt said softly. "But that doesn't mean I agreed with them, right?"

"I suppose."

"I think I'm going to quit anyways." Kurt looked down at his nails and Blaine followed his gaze. They were immaculately groomed, much like the rest of Kurt. "Besides, I just took the job because I was living in L.A., and it was one of the best-paying jobs I could get on short notice."

"What will you do next?" questioned Blaine, stirring his spoon in the bowl. Kurt shot him a wide grin, and Blaine felt his heart stutter.

"Well, you know, I've got a lot of fashion connections around here," Kurt said, shrugging a shoulder. "I never wanted to be a _receptionist_. I was interning."

"I know, I looked you up," Blaine admitted and Kurt nodded, a hint of a smile still tugging at his lips.

"I was wondering how you found out," Kurt said honestly, and he drained the last of his coffee. He made a face. "I'm awful at making coffee."

"Are you going to intern?"

"Probably. I have a friend at Monique Lhuillier who can probably can get me in," Kurt said flippantly, and Blaine tilted his head at him. "She does bridal, mostly."

"Do you like weddings?"

"I don't," Kurt said shortly, his expression closed off, and Blaine scrunched his thick brows at him. Then, all at once, Kurt's eyes lit up and the grin that graced his face was breathtaking. Blaine had to physically sit back to not be blinded by the glory of it. "I _love_ weddings."

"Then you should do that," Blaine said quietly, and Kurt smiled at him, settling his cheek on his hand.

"I think I will. But, you know, Blaine, I want to know about _you_." Kurt's thumb was very distracting, with the way it was lightly stroking the side of his own jaw. Blaine felt like a cartoon with how audible his gulps were becoming. "You already know about what I love. Baking, my family, fashion... talking." Blaine chuckled, and Kurt's grin grew wider. "And I know I get carried away with myself sometimes. So, Blaine. Your job at the newspaper." Immediately, Blaine felt himself seize slightly and the smile fell from his face. Kurt sat up straighter and looked at him strangely. "OK, there's a story."

"I don't want to talk about it," Blaine said, voice minuscule, and Kurt shook his head. "Kurt, please."

"Let's play a game," Kurt said abruptly. Blaine was going to get whiplash with how quickly this man changed subjects. "I'm serious. Coffee first, but let's play a game while we go."

Kurt stood quickly and went to the coat rack to retrieve a grey peacoat that he must have brought from his apartment. The idea of Kurt sneaking out of Blaine's apartment, only to bring back groceries and clothes, was so _domestic_ and _familial_ it made Blaine's heart hurt.

He quickly followed him, pulling on his fleece pullover that he knew Kurt was going to scrunch up his nose at. He did.

* * *

><p>"Why did you move to California?"<p>

The game had been simple. Kurt would ask a question for every question that Blaine asked him, tit for tat. Blaine didn't exactly like the game, because it was quickly becoming evident that Kurt was pretty willing to tell Blaine the answer to every question to Blaine's questions.

"I needed a change of pace," Blaine said, clutching at his coffee, his cold fingers warming instantly. He hadn't been to a Starbucks in ages. "I was really tired of my - of everyone knowing about me."

"Knowing what about you?"

Blaine raised his eyebrows at Kurt, who groaned loudly. "Ugh, you're so _dodgy_ with your answers. I can't ask anything and get a good answer."

"You never said I had to elaborate," defended Blaine, taking a long draw from his cup. "It's my turn."

"Yes, it is."

"How was high school for you?"

Kurt immediately closed off, his eyes growing dark and his lips pressing together tightly. Blaine knew he hit the jackpot. Kurt looked down at his hands, a move that Blaine knew was deflection. He pulled that all the time.

"Kurt?"

"High school was awful. My turn."

"Kurt."

"It's my _turn_, Blaine. How was high school for you?" Kurt bit out, his eyes narrowed as he glared at Blaine. That struck Blaine silent, and Kurt looked away, ashamed. "I - that was rude. You don't have to answer that. We don't have to play any more."

"Kurt, calm down," Blaine said, marveling at his ability to soothe instead of being soothed. Kurt bit his lip deeply, his white teeth pressing into his full lip, making an involuntary shiver run up Blaine's spine. "Tell me one thing about high school."

"I had nobody," Kurt whispered. "_Nobody_. Not even my own stepbrother. And when you're a fag in Homophobia, Ohio, there's not a lot of chances to find someone."

Blaine inhaled sharply at that, feeling empathy rush through him. He knew _exactly_ how that felt.  
>"If it helps," Blaine replied, just as quietly. "I didn't have anyone either."<p>

Kurt was silent for a moment, pressing a clenched fist to his lips, his eyes lost, somewhere, years away, somewhere Blaine could never reach him. He turned back, his eyes just a shade brighter than normal.

"It's a good thing that we have each other now though, right?" Kurt said, sounding tiny and weak, which were two adjectives Blaine would _never_ associate with the man before him. He processed Kurt's words and felt his throat grow sticky and thick.

"It's a great thing that we have each other now, Kurt," Blaine answered, putting his hand forward on the table, looking at Kurt desperately, trying to communicate just how much he _needed_ Kurt, just how much he _loved_ - having Kurt around.

He wasn't ready for that thought to complete itself just yet. He didn't know if he'd ever be ready.

All he knew was that his hand was so much warmer when it was encased in Kurt's.

"I work at the newspaper because it's a job where I don't have to talk to anybody face to face," Blaine blurted, and Kurt looked at him, surprised at his answer. "I hate that."

"I hate that too," Kurt said quietly, and Blaine winced, but Kurt shook his head. "No, I hate that you have that fear."

"I don't want to," Blaine said, sighing. "You and N-Nora are the only ones I can talk to. I don't like it, but that's the way it is."

"That's not how it'll always be," said Kurt definitively, and Blaine chuckled softly. "It _isn't_. Have a bit of faith in yourself Blaine. Have a bit of courage."

Blaine kept watching their hands, Kurt's on top of his own, that distracting thumb now rubbing gently upon the juncture of where his index finger's knuckle met the back of his hand. He let himself be pacified by the motion, and he let himself believe in the crazy notions that Kurt thought.

"If you could be anything in the world," Kurt began slowly, drawing each word out. "If you could make money doing anything, that is... what would you want to be doing right now?"

"Ideally spending time with you," Blaine replied, and Kurt rolled his eyes, but a traitorous grin crept upon his face.

"A career, Blaine."

"I don't know." Kurt frowned at that. "I really don't. Anything to get me along, I guess."

"You don't like writing?"

"I'm good at it, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it that much."

Kurt's frown deepened, and Blaine was about to say something when Kurt stood, pulling Blaine up with him by the hand. His eyes held a strong determination, and Blaine was mildly intimidated by it. He only realized that he was still holding the paper cup in his hand when Kurt wrenched it from him and set it upon the table.

Kurt grasped at Blaine's shoulder and looked towards him, deeply gazing into his eyes. "You listen to me, Blaine Westwood Anderson," Kurt said lowly. It wasn't like _anything_ Blaine had heard out of Kurt before, and made him shiver a bit. "And you listen close. We're going to find you a passion, something you love. And you're going to make money doing it."

"That's not dirty, is it?" Blaine joked weakly. Kurt sighed.

"That's it, that's absolutely it."

Before Blaine could react, Kurt's arms were wrapped around him tightly, his chest pressed to his, and Blaine was frozen. Kurt didn't let up at all, and Blaine could almost _feel_ Kurt's scent seeping into his own, and he relaxed slightly, letting his stiff limbs rise slightly to circle Kurt's waist.

"Thank you," Blaine said awkwardly, but Kurt didn't let go.

"You don't thank me for this," Kurt said adamantly into his shoulder. He pulled back slightly, his arms still around Blaine's neck. "Everyone should have someone to help in their darkest times. I've been there and I know that it _sucks_, so I'm here for you now."

This time, Blaine pulled Kurt back, embracing him tightly so that Kurt couldn't see the tears shining in his eyes. Kurt chuckled, the sound slightly watery.

"Come on."

Kurt pulled away, and clutched at Blaine's hand. It felt like warmth was exploding from every bit of him, as though Kurt was simply radiating compassion and Blaine was accepting it greedily.

"Let's go quit our jobs and stop emotionally hugging in the middle of a coffee shop."

Blaine began to guffaw, a terrible, guttural noise, but it was _freeing_ and _lovely_.

Someone had finally found him.

* * *

><p><em>"Don't come back for me, don't come back at <em>all_! Who do you think you are?"_

Blaine laughed at Kurt, who threw his unoccupied hand out grandly, gesturing to the cloudy sky. "Bravo. Wonderful rendition."

"My vibrato is weak now," Kurt harrumphed. "I haven't sung like that in years."

"Your singing is lovely," Blaine said honestly, and he knew that the red tinge on Kurt's cheeks couldn't just be from the nip of the air. "I mean it. You have one of the most heartbreaking voices I've ever heard."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Kurt sniffed, an enormous smile on his face, glowing with pride. "Do you sing?"

"Oh, God, no," Blaine said, laughing. "No, I cannot sing."

"Everyone _can_ sing," Kurt said, rolling his eyes. "It's just a matter of whether or not you _should_ sing. I want to hear you sing."

"No, you don't," Blaine said, glancing to their joined hands where Kurt was swinging them softly.

"I really do. Here, we could sing together, and you could just listen to me sing," Kurt offered. "Any song in particular?"

"I don't know much music, Kurt..."

"Oh, God, I'll educate you," Kurt said, flapping his hand at him. "Let's just sing together, all right?"

"Sure," Blaine allowed, and Kurt beamed at him. Kurt rubbed at his chin absently, pooching his lips out a bit. "What's that?"

"What to sing..." Kurt said quietly. "Something you'll know. Oh, I've got it. Everyone knows this one." Kurt inhaled deeply before beginning to sing. "_You think I'm pretty, without any makeup on. You think I'm funny, when I tell the punch line wrong. I know you get me, so I let my walls come down. Do-o-own!"_

Blaine grinned widely as Kurt lost himself in Katy Perry, in a song that Blaine hadn't heard since his junior year in high school. Kurt continued, his voice rising in volume.

"_Before you met me, I wasn't right. Things were kinda heavy, you brought me to life, now, every February, you'll be my valentine, valentine!_"

Kurt kept singing, his voice gorgeous and perfectly in pitch no matter how Kurt complained. Suddenly Blaine found himself joining in.

"_You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream, the way you turn me on! I can't sleep, let's run away and don't ever look back, don't ever look back!_" they sang together, Kurt's eyes widening as he watched Blaine begin to sing. Blaine lost himself in the harmony of their voices together, meshing effortlessly.

"_My heart stops when you look at me! Just one touch, now baby I believe, this is real. Now, take a chance, don't ever look back, don't ever look back!_"

Blaine realized that his voice was alone then, and he opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) to gaze at his duet partner, whose eyes were shining and excited.

"You're wonderful!" Kurt said, in awe. "I'm sorry, where did _that_ come from?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Blaine stuttered, blushing violently, and Kurt shook his head quickly.

"That was _incredible_. Why haven't we sung together before?" Kurt asked urgently, and Blaine laughed nervously. Kurt bumped him gently on the shoulder. "We should do this more often. Make it regular thing."

Blaine _loved_ regular things.

"I'm down," Blaine said, perhaps a bit too readily, and Kurt's grin was just as beautiful as it always was. He never showed his teeth but this one reached his eyes, making them just a touch more vibrant.

"I'm down too," Kurt said, his tone mocking, but Blaine hadn't heard anything more fantastic in his life.


End file.
